Dark Country (Dungirri)

by Parry, Bronwyn

  Pinning him down, finding his own breath again, Gil discovered he didn’t need to keep the knife to Barrett’s throat to hold him still. Barrett’s eyes were on Megan, standing beside his head, a stout branch held aloft in her hands, ready to strike.

  An absurd sense of pride mixed with anger in Gil’s mind at the sight of her. Such a slight build, her loose, goth tunic top ripped at the shoulder and a mark on her face where one of the bastards had hit her. Yet she held her weapon like a young Amazon.

  ‘I told you to run,’ Gil growled at her.

  ‘I did. The police are coming. But you needed help.’ Still holding the branch steady, she glanced at the lad lying on the ground, clutching the back of his head. He groaned and moved, rolling on to his other side, and Megan breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  They could hear cars pulling up out on the road, doors slamming. Two of the attackers – the first two down – headed off on unsteady feet across the playing fields. There was a shout from the road, and someone set off after them at a sprint.

  Barrett started to shift, but Gil moved the knife back to his throat. ‘Don’t try it,’ he warned. ‘Between me and her, you don’t have a chance.’

  Barrett’s glance flicked from one to the other, then back again. He took a long look at each of them, and grinned. ‘Well, holy fuck, hey?’ He started to laugh. ‘Jeez, Gillespie, so it was you who laid the princess. What a fucking joke.’

  ‘Shut it, Barrett,’ Gil warned, but it was already way too late. People were there, had already heard. Someone gently shifted Megan aside, and Gil looked up and passed Fraser the knife.

  He levered himself to his feet and stumbled a few metres away, out of the glare of the security light. Blood dribbled down his arm, and when he put his hand to the stinging on his chest, it came away covered in it.

  He could hear Barrett playing the innocent, proclaiming they’d just been chatting when ‘Daddy there came in swinging like a mad man, raging about us talking with his little girl’. Gil gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to go and slam a fist into Barrett’s face, wishing he’d had reason to use the knife earlier and shut him up before this.

  There were at least half a dozen people there now, another car arriving, and they’d all hear it. Barrett would make sure of that, and Gil knew how quickly the juicy gossip would spread through town. They’d brand Megan with the Gillespie stigma, and make her life hell.

  And as soon as word got back to Flanagan and Russo, they’d regard her as the perfect way to get to him. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Kris arrived at the scene about three minutes after Steve, Adam and Mark, her evening dress replaced in those minutes by jeans, sweatshirt, boots and her uniform belt – far safer for active police work than a long gown.

  The men had taken extra help from those still at the hall. Near the senior classroom, Steve held Sean Barrett against the wall, and Karl knelt beside Trent Dawson on the ground, his first-aid bag open. Adam and Mark were walking back across the grass, with two more between them. Outside the circle of the security light, Gil watched from the shadows.

  Megan stood to one side, arms clutched around herself, her top torn, and Kris went straight to her. The girl buried her face against her shoulder, and Kris held her close, letting her take her time.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened, Megan? Didn’t Beth take you home?’

  Megan straightened, wiped a shaky hand across her eyes, bravely trying not to cry. ‘Yes. But when I got up the drive, I realised that my keys were in my jacket, which I’d left in the pub kitchen today. I didn’t want to wake the grands, so I decided to go and get it. It’s only a block. But then Trent and Sean and the others came, and …’ Her voice wobbled. ‘They’d been drinking, and I couldn’t get them to leave me alone. And then Sean pulled out a knife.’ A sob escaped her, and Kris tightened her arm around her. ‘I was scared, Kris. I tried to get away from them but I couldn’t. But then Gil arrived. I ran across the road, got Mr Trevelyn to phone you, and then I looked for a big stick, so I could help Gil. There were four of them against him, and I didn’t know how long you’d be.’

  Long enough, thought Kris, with a sick wrench in her stomach. Four against one. Gil could have been seriously injured, or killed, in those few minutes, but for Megan’s help.

  ‘I hit Trent on the head. I had to. Sean and Gil were fighting, and Sean had the knife. And then Trent joined in and Gil got cut and … he couldn’t hold off both of them.’

  Kris was focused on Megan, listening to her, putting together what had happened, so although she heard Sean’s shout in the background, it took a moment for his words to sink in.

  ‘Hey, Gillespie, I reckon I know someone who’ll love to hear about your little girl.’

  Gil’s little girl? It didn’t make sense … until she remembered Jeanie, the other morning, worrying about Gil going off without a word, saying, ‘… he was upset, shocked, about something I’d told him …’

  A hitherto unknown daughter? That would have been a hell of a shock, enough to send a man like Gil off for some thinking time. And Megan had just turned seventeen, the right age for her conception to have occurred prior to Gil’s abrupt departure from town.

  He hadn’t said anything … but then, Kris realised, when would he have had a chance? If he’d only found out yesterday morning, the time since then had been packed with other, more urgent concerns. No wonder he wore that cautious emotional armour; Dungirri had dumped one blow after another on him ever since he’d arrived.

  Megan had heard Sean, too. Maybe she’d heard more than Kris, or there’d been things said earlier, during the fight, as she drew back to see Kris’s face and asked, ‘Is it true? Is he … my father?’

  It was all there, in front of her – straight black hair, with the widow’s peak point at the centre of her forehead, dark eyes, the Saxon cheek bones, softer on Megan but still evident.

  How the heck could she answer that? Paternity was a damned delicate matter, and with only guesswork and not knowing the full story, she had to tread carefully. ‘He hasn’t said anything to me, Megan. Let’s wait until this situation is sorted out, and you can ask him later, okay?’

  She’d make darn sure she had a word with Gil to prepare him before ‘later’ came.

  Beth arrived, called in by Karl. Satisfied Megan was unharmed, just shaken, Kris left the girl in Beth’s care.

  Steve and Adam, with help from Mark, had Megan’s attackers under control and were going through their stories. Kris looked over at the four of them: Sean Barrett, Zac and Trent Dawson, and Luke Sauer.

  What was Sean doing, hanging around with youths fifteen years his junior? Zac and Luke were around nineteen or twenty, Trent barely eighteen. She could bet who’d been the ringleader in this crime; but there’d be time enough to sort that out later. Adam was already on the phone, calling in backup from Birraga, and Karl had moved on from Trent, and was now giving his cousin hell even as he mopped blood off his face.

  Thirty metres away, in the shadows, Gil stood looking out over the playing field instead of watching the others. He didn’t turn around as she approached.

  ‘What happened, Gil?’ she asked from behind him.

  He took a little time answering, his back still to her. ‘I heard voices, then she cried out, and I came round here and found the four of them attacking her.’

  ‘So you fought them?’

  ‘No other choice.’

  No, she figured, there probably hadn’t been – for him. He wouldn’t leave a girl alone, undefended, no matter the risk.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Not much.’

  Uh-oh. She put a hand on his arm. ‘Define “much”.’

  ‘A scratch. Or two.’ He turned, and she saw the ripped T-shirt, the wet cloth sticking to his chest, the blood on his arm, but as she gasped and moved forward to inspect the wounds, he stepped back abruptly. ‘Don’t!’

  He might still be on edge from the fight. From the wounds. From seeing Megan attacked. And w
as likely in pain, perhaps even a touch of shock.

  She purposely played down her concern. ‘Really, Gillespie, if that’s a scratch I’d hate to see a gash.’

  ‘It’s not deep. Look after Megan. She needs to get home.’

  ‘I’ll get her there, very soon. But you need that cut looked at.’

  He attempted to dismiss her worry with a wave of his blood-smeared hand. ‘It can wait. I’ll wipe the blood up with something.’ He lowered his voice, spoke urgently, without any trace of confusion from his injuries, ‘Blue, she isn’t safe. When word gets out, they could go for her.’

  ‘It’s true then? You’re her father?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded wearily, as if still trying to convince himself. ‘Dates are right, circumstances right. And the resemblance is strong.’

  Police training didn’t cover what to say to a man who’d recently discovered an almost-grown daughter. ‘Congratulations’ didn’t exactly cut it, and sympathy could be awkward, not knowing the circumstances and never having met Barbara Russell. So she gave him what she could, and what he needed – some knowledge about the girl.

  ‘She’s a good kid, Gil. She’s had a tough ride these past couple of years, but she’s trying damned hard to make things work.’

  ‘I know.’ He stared down at his hand for a moment, then wiped it on the bottom of his T-shirt. ‘I don’t know any fucking thing about being a father, Blue. I grew up feral …’ Self-disgust loaded his words. ‘I scrounged, stole, hunted, did whatever I needed to survive. I stayed with the old man because I didn’t belong anywhere else. How can I be any good for her?’

  The fact that he trusted her enough to reveal his self-doubt made Kris’s heart strangely tight. ‘Maybe the same way you’ve been good for Deb and Liam, Gil. They respect you, think the world of you. Seems to me you’ve already got some experience in building a family of sorts.’

  He snorted. ‘I didn’t do much for them. And now I’ve dragged all of them, including Megan, into danger.’

  ‘That’s not your fault. But I agree – there is a risk. Gil, the guy in the black jacket this afternoon … You didn’t recognise him?’

  Instantly suspicious, he stared at her. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Alec Goddard knows of him.’ She briefly explained Alec’s revelations about Sergio Russo.

  ‘Fuck.’ He repeated it a few more times, anger and self-disgust loading it. ‘I’d heard a few rumours, but I’ve been too busy these past few months to check into them.’

  He stared up into the night, fingers rubbing his temple while he thought. ‘I have to get them away. Deb and Liam were going to go in the morning, but they need to take Megan. Now. Tonight. Take her home, Blue, and pack some clothes for her. I’ll be there shortly.’

  She caught his arm as he started towards the pub. ‘Gil, you can’t just take off with her like that. You need those gashes seen to, and I need to get statements from both of you, so we can charge those louts with assault. And we need to think this through, work out the safest course of action for all of you.’

  He hesitated, reluctant, the desire for immediate action showing in his clenched jaw and arms.

  More people had arrived, standing around gawking at the four attackers, and at Megan. Johnno Dawson berated and argued with Steve while Joy, still in her dainty ball dress, wept beside her sons.

  Kris had to go and help Steve and Adam keep things under control until backup came and they could move the lads out of there and send them into Birraga for questioning and probable charges.

  ‘I’ll ask Beth to take Megan home, and stay with her until I can get there,’ she told Gil. ‘Do you want to go with them, or do you want to wait at the pub? Beth or Doc Russell should be able to patch you up, if you go with them.’

  ‘I’ll go with her.’

  ‘Megan heard Sean,’ she warned him. ‘She asked me about you, whether it was true. Are you ready for that?’

  ‘No,’ he said bluntly. But he walked across the grass to his daughter, anyway.

  She stood for a few seconds and watched him go. Then she gave herself a mental shake and went to deal with four drunken louts and their irate parents, and a crowd that might just as easily side with the lads as with the police.

  SIXTEEN

  It was a strange walk, that half block down the quiet street from the school to the Russells’ large house, set back from the road in a couple of acres of garden gone wild. Megan walked between Beth and him, and none of them spoke until they’d reached the gate in the stone wall. After Megan opened the gate for them, she paused, fidgeting with the latch.

  ‘Gil … what Sean said … Is he right? Are you my father?’

  For all he’d known it was coming, the question still hit him hard, made him feel as if the ground beneath him had turned to quicksand. Answering it meant either lying, or taking a path through the quicksand he could never turn from. He couldn’t lie. He glanced for help, for guidance from Beth, but she’d wandered a short distance away, and was carefully studying a flower she couldn’t see properly in the dark.

  ‘Yeah, it sure seems that way.’ He tried for casual, but the tightness in his throat made it sound strained. ‘Dates match up. You might want to do the DNA thing, but looking in the mirror’s probably almost as convincing.’

  ‘Do you … do you mind?’

  ‘Mind?’ He didn’t understand what she meant, at first.

  ‘The grands wanted a sweet little girl,’ she said in a rush, ‘and instead they got me, their worst nightmare.’

  ‘Jesus.’ How was he supposed to respond to that? He didn’t do this stuff. Personal stuff. He had no frigging clue how to deal with it, with her and his own damned inadequacies. He hunted through his head for words that could explain. Honest words that she could trust. ‘Look, mate, I’m still trying to get used to this whole idea. But yes, I mind that I never knew, until yesterday. I mind that I got Barb into trouble, when I never meant to. And I mind – in fact, it’s really starting to piss me off – that I’ll always have to wonder what you were like as a little kid, that I didn’t get to watch you grow up. But as far as minding that you’re who you are, well, if I can ever properly get my head around the idea that I’m a father and you’re my …’ he almost said ‘kid’, but swallowed it and made himself use the other word, ‘my daughter, then I reckon I’ll feel proud of who you are, and glad that you’re not some obnoxious teenage brat.’

  He blew out a breath as he finished, instinctively looked around for some kind of escape. Over by the rose bush, out of Megan’s line of sight, Beth gave him a thumbs-up sign.

  Megan smiled up at him, a genuine, warm smile, her eyes sparkling.

  So, he’d managed to navigate the first five minutes of parenthood without totally screwing up. Now he just had to keep doing it for the rest of his life, however long that would be.

  Ahead of them, the veranda lights switched on, and a moment later a series of lights illuminated the semi-circular gravel driveway.

  ‘Who’s out there? Is that you, girl?’ the old man’s voice called.

  ‘Yes, Grandfather, it’s me.’ Megan began to walk briskly up the driveway, Beth by her side.

  Gil followed more slowly. Better to let Beth explain the attack on Megan first, before he explained … well, himself, and why he was here, and that he’d brought danger to Megan and that he had to see her safe.

  He’d be the last person Doctor and Mrs Russell would want to see. Even if they didn’t know – if Barbara had never told them who’d fathered her baby – it wouldn’t make much difference. Edward Russell hated him on principle, with all the vehemence of a self-righteous social and moral superior, and had done his best to ensure Gil’s conviction, well before Barb could have known that she was pregnant.

  The man stood in the doorway, leaning on his walking stick, while Beth walked up the steps, her arm around Megan’s shoulder. Gil caught a glimpse of movement in the background, Esther Russell, presumably, who’d always hovered behind her husband.

  ‘D
octor Russell, Mrs Russell, Kris Matthews asked me to bring Megan home. Unfortunately, there’s been an incident.’

  There was little sign of the old, shy Beth in her calm, professional manner and concise explanation.

  ‘Gil Gillespie heard the attack, and fought the men off,’ Beth said. ‘It’s likely he saved Megan from a much more serious assault.’

  ‘Morgan Gillespie?’ Doc Russell almost spat the name. ‘I heard the criminal was back in town.’

  Gil stepped up on to the veranda and faced the doctor. ‘Yes, I am back.’ He’d have argued the ‘criminal’ point, but in a ripped, blood-soaked black T-shirt and with a two-day growth of beard, he fitted the image too well. He probably should have cleaned up first, although chances were it wouldn’t make much difference.

  Closer, now, he saw that the doctor hadn’t aged well. Under the woollen dressing gown, he seemed frail, and the walking stick a necessary aide rather than an affectation. Even with its support, he seemed unsteady. But his opinions hadn’t mellowed, despite the frailness of his body.

  ‘You stay out of my house. I won’t have vermin in here.’

  ‘But Grandfather, you can’t,’ Megan protested. ‘Gil’s my father.’

  The old man stared at him for long seconds, his face twisting with rage. ‘You?’ he bellowed.

  Gil deflected the blow from the walking stick with his forearm, pain cracking along it and up to his shoulder.

  Beth moved quickly, taking the stick with one hand, gripping the doctor’s arm with the other, both to steady him and restrain him. Esther came forward to put an arm around her husband, shooting an apologetic look at Gil.

  ‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ Beth suggested in a firm, polite tone that made it an order, rather than a suggestion. As the doctor started to object, she spoke over him. ‘I’m sure you don’t want this discussion taking place on the doorstep where all the neighbours can hear.’